


Legacy

by st_crispins



Series: St. Crispin's Day Society [post-series] [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Next Generation, Old Friends, Partnership, Post-Series, St. Crispin's Day Society universe, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 20:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13442760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_crispins/pseuds/st_crispins
Summary: It's Christmas 1989, and as Solo and Kuryakin renew their friendship while moving to the next stage of their lives, a new threat arises, a legacy from the past.





	Legacy

 

_And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,_

_Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born.  ------ W. B. Yeats_

 

**Somewhere on the North Shore of Chicago. Christmas Eve, 1989.**

    He’d resolved not to be intimidated, but he was, nonetheless, in spite of himself. The house was so large — larger than any private residence he’d ever visited in his twenty-something life, certainly larger than any to which he’d ever been invited as a guest. The reception hall alone was twice the size of his entire South Loop apartment.

But that wasn’t the only surprise. Based on what little he knew about his host, he’d expected the address to belong to a mansion that looked European — perhaps one of those faux French chateaus he’d seen, all gables and turrets, stone walls and steeply pitched hip roofs.  But it had turned out to be just the opposite: square and massive, more horizontal than vertical — “Prairie style” he remembered from a caption in his high school history book. The sort of place that Frank Lloyd Wright designed for a number of Chicago robber barons back in the Roaring 20s, tucked away in a neighborhood of people so wealthy they needn’t prove their worth to anyone, least of all, to each other.

The Prairie style architecture was supposed to be organic to the landscape and more expressive of American democracy. Well, there was nothing very democratic or even organic about this residence. The face it presented to the rest of the world that lay west of Sheridan Road was stark, brooding, ominous, faintly Oriental, like a medieval Japanese fortress. A lot of power resided here, and power, he knew, was neither warm and cuddly, nor feverishly hot. Rather, power — true power — was cool and imperious, with no need for swagger or showy display, a point he’d do well to keep in mind when presenting himself tonight.

For now, however, all he could do was sit politely and patiently on one of two upholstered, gothic-looking benches and try not to perspire too much while he waited.  Besides the benches, the only other furnishing in the sleek, uncluttered foyer was a massive Christmas tree. Impressive in girth and height, it was nevertheless impersonally decorated with tasteful, plain glass balls, like the public relations trees found in swanky corporate lobbies. Clearly, no one living here was interested in peace on earth or good will toward men, and there was not even the pretense to suggest otherwise. He didn’t mind; in fact, he found it reassuring. He didn’t buy all that Season of Love crap, either.

While he waited, he took mental inventory of his own appearance and the impression he hoped to make. He’d invested in a brand-new sports jacket and a decent haircut, shined up his shoes to a high polish, chosen his best shirt matched with an understated, red club tie, and shaved his cheeks clean and close. Despite the invitation to dinner, he knew this was less a social occasion than a job interview.

No, come to think of it, it was considerably more than that. If he played his cards right, this could be the beginning of the rest of his life.

“Mr. Peterson?” a voice inquired. It was the butler who’d answered the doorbell and taken his trench coat, returning to escort him in. The young man rose automatically.

“This way, please.”

They walked single file down a long, sleek central corridor that led to the rear of the house, while Peterson tried hard not to betray his awe of the surroundings. _Did people actually live this way?_   At the moment, he was less than twenty miles from the middle class tract housing in which he’d grown up, but it might as well have been twenty light years.

Eventually they reached the part of the residence that overlooked Lake Michigan. As the butler announced him, Peterson paused at the threshold of a spacious, sprawling living room filled with at least a dozen well-dressed people, maybe more, mingling, with drinks in hand, around an imposing, rough-hewn stone fireplace.  The fire was roaring and the lights overhead were muted to a warm golden glow. Beyond the people, at the far side of the room, he could see through the bank of windows, leaded in geometric patterns that outside it was still snowing.

“Ah, Mr. Peterson,” another voice, this one elderly and cultured, greeted him. “Welcome.”

Beside the owner of that voice, a blonde woman in a black cocktail dress turned, and her eyes raked over Peterson, a look of undisguised astonishment on her face.

“Oh my God, Victor,” she gasped softly. “He looks just like —.”

She choked on the name, unable to bring herself to complete the thought aloud.

“Yes, my dear. He does, doesn’t he?”  And beside her, Victor Marton arched an enigmatic eyebrow and smiled.

***

**Somewhere on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.**

“Dad?”

Allyson Solo called out softly as she locked the co-op door behind her. After she hung up her coat in the front hall closet and tucked a shopping bag stuffed with last minute gifts below it, she tried again, but there was still no answer.

Making her way through the living room, she noted the easy chair was unoccupied and the television set was turned off, and that was good. There weren’t any liquor bottles, empty or otherwise, left lying around, and that was even better. Long ago she’d learned to tolerate her father’s inability to cope with the holidays, though it’d become much easier now that she understood the real reason behind all the gloom. Watching your spouse die on Christmas Day was enough to send even the most dedicated Santa into major Scrooge mode, and the fact that Solo blamed himself for what had happened only added insult to injury.

But last year, for the first time in all the years she could remember, things had been better and he’d endured Christmas with only a faint, lingering melancholy. Encouraged by the lack of any visible evidence this year of the customary annual depression, Allyson was hoping they might go two for two.

Entering the dining room, she heard the soft shush of water shutting off in the distance and realized he must be in the shower. That was also a good sign: it meant her father was still willing to go through with their dinner date. They hadn’t really talked much since the letter informing Allyson that she’d been accepted to the U.N.C.L.E. Survival School arrived a week or so ago. When she’d shared it with him, Solo had just nodded silently with a weary resignation that was almost painful to witness. He’d been rather more pleased to hear that she expected an engagement ring from her boyfriend any day now, though his response to that bit of news was similarly subdued.

But now, she realized, perhaps she’d been a bit too optimistic. The shoebox sitting on the dining room table said it all. He’d been looking through their old photographs, something that he rarely did.

 _Feeling sentimental, Dad?_ she wondered, knowing the answer.

Idly she slipped the lid off the box and began to thumb through the stack of familiar photos. There weren’t many — her parents had always been camera shy — and she knew all the photographs by heart. Here was her mother posing with her beside their Christmas tree in Stockholm. Here was her father, many years later, on a warm spring day, varnishing the deck of the boat. And here was herself, perched at the top of the jungle gym in the park, waving and smiling with obvious triumph, as if she’s just climbed Mount Everest. The pictures looked so mundane, like any other family’s collection. The difference couldn’t be found within the frame, but in what lay beyond it.

“Oh, hello, sweetheart,” Solo greeted her as he entered the dining room, running a comb through damp hair, his shirt buttons still undone. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Allyson doubted that. She’d spent her childhood discovering that her father, no matter how leisurely or relaxed he appeared, was always acutely aware of everything that was happening around him, and thinking that all parents went through life that way.

“Where’s David?” Solo asked.

“Held up at the office. Some last minute thing. He said he’ll be along soon.”

Solo peered over her shoulder at the photos fanned out in her fist like playing cards. “Paris,” he said, tapping a corner with his fingertip. “I’d guess ’82.”

“1980,” she corrected him.

“Are you sure? You look a bit older there than that.”

Allyson nodded. Oh, she was sure. She had reason to remember. “That was the year we met that woman. You know — that Thrush woman, Angelique.” 

“Ah, yes,” he said softly and let it pass without further comment. Allyson continued to sort through the photos. “And here’s London. Cairo. San Francisco. Toronto.” Solo always traveled, and often, if she wasn’t in school, he’d take Allyson with him.

“Were those really just simple business trips?” she asked as the question occurred to her.

“Of course — mostly.”  His smile, both sly and innocent, invited a groan.

 “Oh, Dad,” Allyson said, but her father just chuckled, unrepentant. U.N.C.L.E. had always hovered in the background of their lives; she understood that now. She’d just been too young and naive to notice. “We really should paste these in an album.”

“Someday,” Solo agreed, but they’d been saying that for years and they both knew they would never get around to it.

“Oh,” Allyson exclaimed suddenly as she plucked from the box a photograph that she’d never seen before. “Where did this come from?”

“I found a few old pictures lying around in my dresser drawer. Thought you might like to see them.”

She knew they hadn’t been ‘lying around’ — stashed was more like it — but still, she was interested and flattered that he was now willing to share with her the part of his life that had always been hidden away from view.

“This is Mr. Waverly, isn’t it? The head of U.N.C.L.E. Your old boss.”

Solo nodded. “Hang on to that picture,” he joked. “It’s probably worth a fortune at Sotheby’s. Outside of the U.N.C.L.E. archives, there are few like it around.”

He began to turn away to finish dressing, but she wasn’t quite done yet. Allyson found another photo. A young woman, not her mother. A woman who was darker, sleeker, even a little dangerous looking. The half-smile she offered the camera had both wry amusement and a challenge in it.

“Who is this?” Allyson asked, studying the steady, almost feline gaze frozen in time. She knew, instinctively, that she was looking at a spy, an agent, one of them.

 “Hmm?” Solo squinted. As usual, he didn’t have his glasses handy. “Oh. That’s April. April Dancer.”

“She was very beautiful.”

“That she was,” he agreed casually, buttoning his shirt. “Still is.” 

“You worked with her?”

“A few times. We were very good friends.”

 _How good?_ Allyson wondered fleetingly, but she didn’t ask. He might tell her, and then again, he might not, but either way, she’d be able to guess the truth, and she really didn’t want to know.

“She’s the reason there are female field agents. April was the first.”

Allyson flipped to the next picture and abruptly let out a laugh. This face she knew very well. “Oh my God, it’s Illya!”

Once again, Solo peeked over her shoulder. “He looks so young,” Allyson observed, fingering the photo with undisguised delight. “When was this taken?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Solo shrugged as he finished the last shirt button. “The sixties some time.”

“That’s the Trevi fountain. He looks a little annoyed.”

“No doubt. We were on vacation and I was dragging him around Rome, looking for a particular restaurant. We got sidetracked and we never found it.”

She paused, comparing this image — paler, blonder, sweeter, almost ethereal, as if someone had taken one of the carved angels from a nearby church and positioned it next to Neptune’s lair — with the one she’d come to know. They weren’t too different; Kuryakin had aged well. “He was gorgeous.”

Solo gave her a sidelong glance. “Oh, you think so?” he asked, feigning jealousy. Then he retreated to deposit the comb and retrieve his jacket.

“So were you,” she called out, but he fired back a jaunty, “Too late,” which made her chuckle and shake her head. When he returned, she was staring at the photo of her mother by the Christmas tree.

“You still think about Mama, don’t you?” Allyson asked, knowing the answer.

“Every day,” Solo assured her.

“And what about Illya?”

“He’s where he wants to be — safe, with a woman who loves him.”

“But you miss him.”

Solo grinned. “Well, maybe every other day.”

He’d answered both questions lightly, so he was surprised to see his daughter nearly on the verge of tears.  “What’s the matter?” Solo asked with real concern. So much was happening in her life at the moment. Sometimes he wondered if she told him everything. But then, he couldn’t blame her if she didn’t, since he’d never told her everything, himself.

“It’s just that, all these people —” Allyson waved her hand across the piles of photos before her. “ — everyone you ever loved and cared about. They’re all gone.”

“Well, not _everyone,_ ” Solo said, “and it’s not like they’re all dead,” — _not like your mother_ — but Allyson wouldn’t be comforted.

“And now I’m leaving you, too.” And before he could reply, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. Smiling ruefully, Solo returned the embrace. He wasn’t quite sure where this was all coming from, but apparently he wasn’t the only one feeling emotional.

“It’s simply what happens when you survive long enough,” he told her.

But then, she really had no idea, he thought. There were many more people, more memories, that had no corresponding pictures to share, and in some instances, that was a blessing.

“David says he wants us to be together forever,” Allyson said, pulling back a little.

“I hope you will be,” Solo replied, meaning it.

“I just hope I make it through that training school. I want to make you proud.”

“Ah, sweetheart.” Solo sighed as she hugged him again. “I’m already proud. Don’t you know you’re the best part of me?”

When he kissed her forehead, she almost lost it, but before she could, the co-op’s buzzer pierced the stillness, signaling a visitor’s arrival in the lobby.

“That’s David,” Allyson declared, sucking in a breath, as they broke apart. “He’s on his way up.” Since the doorman knew her boyfriend, there was no reason to go to the intercom to give instructions to let him in.

Solo watched as she went for her purse and opened it, checking through its contents. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he said hesitantly. “I mean, me coming with the two of you for dinner.”

“Why do you say that?” Allyson asked, still rummaging.

“Well, you know,” Solo said joining her. He tilted his head to one side. “It’s Christmas Eve and all. He just might want to be alone with you. It’s kind of hard to pop the question with the girl’s father sitting right there.”

“Huh?” The inventory finished, Allyson zipped her bag shut. “Oh. No, don’t worry,” she said, forcing her voice to sound more casual than she felt. Solo _had_ to come. It would ruin the surprise if he didn’t. “It’s just dinner.”  That was a lie, of course. She’d planned far more than that, but she was determined not to allow him to catch on.

“You know, David asked my permission for your hand,” Solo said.

“No! He didn’t! I’ll kill him.”

That made Solo smile. He’d anticipated her reaction. “Don’t be too angry. It’s just that he respects me.”

There was another buzz, indicating that David had arrived at the door. Allyson went to answer it.

“He’s intimidated by you.”

“That, too,” Solo conceded, amused, because she was right.

He couldn’t say the same for his daughter. She was going to do this — the wedding, Survival School, all of it — her own way. She’d even inquired, broaching the subject gently but firmly, if he would walk her down the aisle, but not give her away. And he agreed because he was already giving her away, and he didn’t need to do it twice. U.N.C.L.E. had always gotten — demanded — the best of him, and now it was claiming the very last piece.

 As Solo watched, David came through the door and he and Allyson kissed. “Good evening, sir,” the young agent said, “Merry Christmas.”

Solo reached for his coat. “Now, David, must I keep reminding you to call me Napoleon?”

“Yes, sir,” Chen laughed. Solo began to reach out a hand to help Allyson on with her coat, but Chen was already there. Resigned, Solo stepped back, allowing the two young people to precede him. Then he switched out the lights and locked the co-op door behind them, for the moment, savoring the trill of their mingled voices as they echoed down the hallway.

Heading toward the elevators, Solo watched his daughter tease her lover, squeezing Chen’s arm and laughing happily, and he tried to make a mental fist of his mind to catch the image and hold it there. Like those moments in time preserved in the shoebox, this one would not last and indeed, was already passing. And though he appreciated her excitement and anticipation, he couldn’t ignore the tug at his own heart. Because he knew her innocent days were numbered, and next Christmas, when he hugged her, he would feel the bump of a gun at her side.

***

“He’s quite lovely, Victor,” Angelique observed as she delicately cut through her serving of a juicy roasted squab stuffed with foie gras and truffles. They were at dinner now, with everyone eating and chatting while, in the background, Nat King Cole crooned softly about chestnuts on an open fire and Jack Frost nipping at your nose As host, Marton had the place at the head of the long polished table with Angelique at his right elbow. Their young guest, the subject of the conversation, was seated some distance away, sandwiched between Narcissus Darling and Ellipsis Zark. 

“So glad you approve my dear.” In the buttery glow of the candlelight, the old Frenchmen’s withered smile was unctuous and smugly satisfied. “He’s intelligent, too. Graduated two years ago magna cum laude.”

“Really?” Angelique’s cat’s eyes widened and glittered with pleasure. Her gaze was drawn to Peterson and she watched for a moment as the young man carefully juggled the conversations and cutlery, taking inventory of him for the umpteenth time that evening. She couldn’t help herself. His physical resemblance to Solo was striking, and stirred in her a perverse fascination — not to mention what else it stirred. “Well, he may have his mother’s brain, but there’s no doubt he’s his father’s son — right down to the chin.” _And perhaps in other respects as well,_ she thought wickedly.

“But without the heart,” Marton added.

“Even better. All that nobility was so tiresome. So, where did you find him?”

 “Right under our noses. He was working as a courier in our South Side operation. Pearlman was an old acquaintance of his mother, apparently, and offered him a job. His duties were routine, strictly low priority.”

“What a nice surprise. Like finding the proverbial diamond in the rough.” She reached for her wine and took a sip. “I wonder if Napoleon has any other spawn lying about.” They were both aware of Allyson’s existence.

“Let us hope not,” Marton intoned.

“But tell me: apart from the obvious sideshow entertainment value, what do you expect to do with him? Why is he here?”

“He says he has a business proposition to make.”

“ _Does_ he now?” Angelique said thoughtfully as her attention wandered again to the other end of the table. “How delicious.”

Marton’s eyes shifted sideways and caught the telltale shiver rippling the sequins of her black cocktail dress. He smiled slyly as he read what was in her mind. “Try not to devour him for dessert, my dear. I’d rather like to hear what he has to say.”

For his part, despite a Herculean effort to maintain the fiction of apparent self-composure, Adrian couldn’t totally disregard the scrutiny and it made him nervous. The woman who was studying him at the moment had earlier fingered the lapels of his sports jacket like a tailor estimating his measurements.  There was no doubt she was sizing him up — in every sense of the word. They all were.

But he’d expected that — it was the price he was willing to pay in exchange for realizing his ambitions —and in return, he was making some personal appraisals of his own.

The women outnumbered the men, but only two weren’t wives or trophies. Both were blonde, though judging by their age, not naturally so. The one sitting next to him was thin and brittle, like a model artificially preserved. Her skin was stretched taut, and her cheeks were high and smooth as plastic, the obvious result of an unfortunate love affair with cosmetic surgery. The one sitting farther away was not so thin, and had a voluptuousness reminiscent of a classic movie queen — Marilyn Monroe perhaps. That is, if Marilyn were still alive and had lingered well past her prime.

 _And he probably screwed them both, the seducing bastard,_ Adrian thought, _just as he did my mother and nearly every other set of thighs he came across._ But these women had never been as innocent, or as inexperienced, as Mara, so he harbored no particular sympathy for them. Most likely, they’d been treated exactly as they deserved.

As for the men, well, they were certainly a wealthy, well-fed pack of gargoyles. Old, fat and content — toothless predators who’d grown too complacent and dependent on the easy handout, and had long forgotten how to hunt.

 _But I’m still hungry,_ Adrian told himself, though he would keep his own claws retracted and his fangs, sheathed, at least for now. This was neither the time nor the place for youthful bravado or gratuitous display. He would mind his manners, be pleasant and respectful, and impress them with his cleverness, wit, and energy. He certainly wasn’t anywhere near as rich and powerful as those around him, yet Adrian knew he was just as smart, if not smarter, and certainly more determined.

 _I am just as good as these people,_ he reminded himself, refusing to be cowed by all the haute cuisine, vintage wine, diamonds, gold watches, and expensive trappings that surrounded him. _I belong here._

And when Mr. Marton raised his glass in his direction, bidding everyone to join in with a toast to the future, Adrian knew he was right.

***

For most people, the time of year to tote up the wins and losses of the past and make resolutions for the future, to pause in the mad rush of everyday existence and take stock of one’s life, is New Year’s.  For Napoleon Solo, however, it was Christmas.

Ever since his troubled childhood, he’d felt a certain ambivalence about the holiday, never quite trusting the tinselly good cheer while fervently wishing he could. And then, one Christmas Eve, his whole world, his entire sense of Good and Evil, everything he’d ever thought he knew and believed about life and his place in it, shifted under his feet, and nothing was ever the same again. He’d lost his moral virginity that night, the night before Allyson’s mother died, and like the survivor of a catastrophic accident, he’d been struggling to recover from it ever since. Even as late as two years ago, he never would have believed he could. But tonight, sitting in the backseat of David Chen’s car, Solo realized that the cliché was true and time had managed to heal even this wound.

“Are you okay back there, Dad?” Allyson asked from the front passenger seat. She’d wanted to switch places, feeling somehow it was undignified for him to sit behind them, but he’d declined the offer. The Chevy Camaro was impossibly cramped in the rear, but he could manage.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he assured her. “Really.”

And it was the truth; he was. For the first time in decades, he actually was. He knew in his heart his wife had forgiven him, which had helped him, finally, to forgive himself and make peace with his past. As for the present, life was pretty good. His stocks were up, his business interests were doing well, and he had plenty of money. He had friends, relationships — Maude in New York, Emily in Boston, and a few other women he saw regularly when he traveled. He sailed, he swam at the club, he played golf, tennis, and poker to keep physically fit and mentally sharp. Even his health was decent. For the moment, his life had achieved a kind of contented equilibrium.

 Still, her concern made him smile. She was so worried about him. They were all so worried about him. Ever since the letter of acceptance to U.N.C.L.E. Survival School had arrived, Maude Waverly had been teasing him relentlessly about mother hens and chicks flying the coop. Obviously she thought that without someone to care for, he’d be lost. Lonely. Empty nest syndrome she called it.

“You haven’t lived all by yourself for a long time,” she warned him, but of course, that wasn’t quite true. Allyson had been away at school for years; he’d grown accustomed to her absences. Now, as a new field agent, his daughter was probably going to need him more than ever, at least for a couple of years, as he had needed Nate Cassidy, and Alexander Waverly, and all his other spiritual godfathers. Without an experienced mentor, greenstick agents didn’t survive long, either professionally or literally.

The other thing Maude didn’t understand was that a field agent, even a retired one, remained forever tied to all other field agents. He’d learned that lesson in dealing with Nash and his evil plot two years before. If Solo ever needed help, he knew that all he had to do was ask for it. He would always have friends. Colleagues. Brothers and sisters in blood. Not to mention his once and forever partner.

“ _And Illya, too?”_

 _“Well, maybe every other day._ ”

He didn’t know exactly where Illya Kuryakin was lying low at the moment, but that didn’t matter.  As long as the Russian was still alive somewhere in the world, Solo would never feel alone.

The Camaro veered gently, rousing Solo from his reverie, as David Chen brought the car to a halt, double-parking next to a Lincoln Continental. Because he hadn’t been paying attention, Solo had no idea where they were. He wiped the fog from the side window with his fist and peered out, searching for clues or a recognizable landmark at least.

It was there, right in front of him. The name over the restaurant, _Portofino_ , wasn’t familiar, but the shape of the entrance and the architecture of the building were. They were in midtown, still on the East Side.

“This used to be Luchese’s,” Solo observed, summoning up old memories.

“Oh, really?” Allyson asked lightly, over her shoulder. She sounded strangely agitated, though there was certainly no reason to be.

“Yes.” He should know; he’d shared enough dinners with Illya and his fellow Enforcement agents here. “We’re not far from U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.”

“No, we’re not.” Allyson exchanged glances with David. The byplay was not lost on Solo.

“I’m on call tonight,” Chen said, “so we didn’t want to go too far.”

 _An odd explanation,_ Solo thought. Field agents were always on call, but he let it pass. Allyson was already climbing out of the car curbside, and holding the door open. With some effort, Solo extricated himself from the cramped backseat.

“You two go on ahead,” David called from behind the wheel, the motor still running. “I’ll find a place to park.”

“Okay,” Allyson agreed and slammed the door. As the Camaro idled behind them, she threaded her arm through her father’s and steered him toward the restaurant.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“Up to?” She was all wide-eyed innocence now. “Christmas Eve dinner, remember?”

Solo nodded irritably. He was suspicious, goddamn it, not senile. But before he could ask her exactly what the hell was going on, she was hustling him across the sidewalk and through the front door, weaving through knots of waiting patrons, right up to the maitre d’ station.

The restaurant was bustling and crowded and oppressively stuffy in a way New York City interiors often were in winter. It was at least forty degrees warmer in here than the night outside, and Solo automatically undid the buttons of his topcoat.

Ignoring the other milling patrons, the maitre d’ recognized Allyson almost immediately. “Ah, Ms. Solo, your table is ready.” He nodded to Napoleon as if he knew him. “And Mr. Solo — an honor. This way, please.”

 Solo took a step back to allow his daughter to precede him, but she wasn’t moving. Instead, she slipped an U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator into the breast pocket of his sports jacket and tugged him close enough to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Call us when you’re done. We’ll pick you up.”

“What?” This wasn’t what he’d expected, not at all, and Solo was thoroughly confused. “I don’t under—”

And then, squinting, Solo looked past the shoulder of the gesturing maitre d’ and he did understand. The main room was long and dark and filled to capacity, but at a table in the far corner, a slight blond man was rising from his chair, offering a discreet wave.

Even at this distance, even without his glasses, indeed, even if he’d suddenly gone legally blind, Solo would know that silhouette anywhere.

“Merry Christmas, Dad,” she said squeezing his arm and planting a kiss on his cheek. “Enjoy your dinner.”

The kiss and the words barely registered. Stunned, Solo drifted away from her like a sleepwalker, and Allyson let him, enormously pleased to do so. He continued on, maneuvering through the crowded tables, weaving between the waiters and busboys and the hoisted trays piled high with food, until he reached the far corner where Illya Kuryakin was waiting for him. And as she watched from her place by the door, Allyson saw the two men open their arms to each other and embrace, and even over the din, Allyson could hear the rumbling baritone of her father’s gratified laughter.

“Mission accomplished, ” she murmured to herself, and slipped out the door, to the street, where David was still double-parked.

***

There are defining moments in every person’s life, and in a little more than two decades, Adrian Peterson knew he’d had more than his fair share. There was the time he shook the hand of a sophisticated, well-groomed stranger and discovered who his father was. Then there were the times he strangled the neighbor’s annoying cat, salted a bully’s school lunch with rat poison, and changed a B plus to an A in his biology teacher’s grade book and got away with it. And then, of course, there was the moment he learned his mother had committed suicide. That was the most defining moment of all.

And now, standing beside Victor Marton’s stone fireplace, Peterson guessed he was about to experience another one. The meal was over and they’d all returned to the living room to smoke cigars and sip after-dinner liqueurs, the entire company sitting around him — expectant, slightly threatening, alert for an opportunity — like vultures circling a predator after a good kill.

“So, my boy,” Marton said, “here is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. We are all listening. Please: Make your proposal.”

 “But first, tell us a little about yourself,” Angelique coaxed him.

It seemed like a good idea, so Peterson did, sketching in his background, avoiding the unpleasant details and concentrating on his exemplary academic record at U of C, his acceptance at Northwestern Law School, and his plans for a career in law. All he needed, he told them, was fifty thousand dollars.

“And why should we give you such a considerable sum of money?” an older, fat man wheezed indignantly. “In exchange for what?”

 “In exchange for eliminating my father.”

 “Exactly what do you mean by ‘eliminate’ ?” the thin blonde with the plastic surgery inquired.

 “Kill him. For fifty thousand dollars, I’ll murder Napoleon Solo for you in cold blood.” He took a breath, relieved that he’d finally announced his long contemplated goal.

 “And what about his Russian friend?” Angelique asked around her cigarette, trying hard to repress a smile. His audacity was singularly amusing.

 “I suppose I could dispose of him, too.”

 This prompted a rumble of low, derisive laughter that dribbled off into perfect silence. Finally, someone —it was difficult to tell who — asked, “Is that it?”

Peterson looked around the room, confused. He’d expected a more appreciative response, more approval, more supportive discussion. “Excuse me?”

 “ _That’s_ your proposal?” the bald man demanded scornfully.

 “Um — ah — yeah. Yes. As you can plainly see, I’m uniquely qualified for the job.”

“Oh? And what makes you think that?”  The questions were being fired from different locations in the room.

“I know him.”

 “Darling, we _all_ know him,” Angelique chortled.

 “But I’m his son. I know how he thinks.”

 “We all know how he thinks,” a small, slight Asian man said. “All we have to do is look up his extensive psychological profile.”

“Some of us don’t need a file,” the thin blonde — Narcissus, her name was  — laughed.

 This was not going the way Peterson had anticipated, not at all. Summoning up his courage, he reminded them, “You tried two years ago and failed.”

 “That’s because someone wanted to get a little too creative,” Narcissus observed flatly, her voice dripping with contempt. “But we know where he lives, where he travels, who he sees —”

 “Do you happen to know where his friend is?” the bald headed man inquired with polite interest.

 “Friend?” Peterson struggled, trying to get control of the situation.

“The friend, the partner.”

“The Russian,” Angelique injected helpfully.

 “Oh, yeah, sure. The Russian. No, but with the right resources, I suppose I could find him too. I —”

 “Yes, yes, yes,” the fat man broke in dismissively. “This is all very interesting. I’m sure we’ll be taking it under consideration.” He turned with some effort in his seat. “Won’t we Victor?”

Marton, who’d been sitting silently through the entire discussion, merely nodded. “Of course, Colonel. And now, ladies and gentlemen, perhaps we should move on to other business.”

Mortified, Peterson thanked them for their attention, and then edged away from the fireplace finding a seat, alone, near the windows. He twisted sideways, his chin propped up on one hand, and stared listlessly out a beveled window. From what he could see, it was still snowing and he didn’t care. About anything. He’d been stupid, overconfident, an idiot, and he’d just blown the best chance he had to escape his boring, mundane, middle-class existence. With his mother gone and only a few hundred dollars left in the bank account, his future looked as bleak as the night outside.

Disgusted with himself, the company, and the entire situation, he wished he could slink away and hide, which was exactly what he intended just as soon as he could excuse himself properly. For now, all he could do was nurse the hatred that burned like battery acid in his heart for the man whose fault all of this was.

 _Merry Christmas, you bastard,_ he thought bitterly. _Someday, with or without their money, I’m going to send you straight to hell._

***

“So how have you been?” Solo asked as the waiter plucked up their menus and retreated. He’d gotten past his astonishment, but just barely. When he and Illya had said their hasty goodbyes over two years ago, Solo never really expected to see his friend again face to face. At least, not in this lifetime. They’d ordered dinner and now two drinks sat between them, the usual scotch on the rocks and an ice-cold shot of vodka. It felt like old times.

“Content and productively employed,” Kuryakin said. “And yourself?”

“I’m doing pretty well, actually.”

“That’s what Allyson told me. I was glad to hear it.” Kuryakin reached for his vodka and held it up automatically for a toast. “Na zdorovye.”

“Merry Christmas,” Solo said, as they clinked glasses.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, too.”

Solo nodded. “It’s better now. I’m better now.”

“Your daughter also told me she’s joining U.N.C.L.E. Are you all right with that?”

“She tried a couple of jobs since college, but her heart wasn’t in them.” Solo held out his hands, helplessly. “Guess it’s in the blood.” He changed the subject. “And how is Martine?”

“Happy and in good health. We have a son, Napoleon.”

Solo blinked and then an easy smile lit his face. Of course. In the last photograph he’d seen of Martine, she was pregnant. “Congratulations.”

 “Thank you.”

“So? Are you going to show me a baby picture?” Solo teased and Kuryakin, not one to voluntarily surrender to a cliché, nevertheless dug into his jacket pocket, opened his wallet and produced a small photo. “We’ve named him Nikolai.”

“He has dark hair like Martine,” Solo observed, studying the comically serious expression on the cherubic face. “But he looks a lot like you. Did you see him born?”

“I assisted with the delivery.” Kuryakin swigged the rest of his drink.  “There was just a midwife present and me.”

“You’re very fortunate. I never saw my children when they were that young.” Solo passed back the photo. “Allyson, of course, I didn’t know about. And with Mara, well, she told me to stay away, so I did.”

“And the boy?”

Solo shrugged more carelessly than he actually felt. His relationship with Mara, like the one with Clara before her, was a failure too painful to contemplate often. “Graduated from high school last I heard. That was — what? — five, six years ago. I asked her if they needed money, but Mara said no.” Nevertheless, as he’d done all the times previously, he wrote a check anyway.

Just then, the waiter was back with dinner, two orders of medallions of veal, the most expensive item on the menu. That was like the old days, too.

“So where’s the family?” Solo asked when they were alone again, grateful for the interruption so he could change the subject. “Don’t tell me you left your wife with a toddler just to come visit me.” Kuryakin wasn’t much for observing Christmas, but it was still the holidays.

“No, I didn’t. They’re here, with me, in New York. Tucked away at U.N.C.L.E. HQ at the moment. The baby was sleeping, and Martine didn’t want to leave him in the care of a stranger, so she chose to remain behind.”

But that wasn’t the only reason Illya was alone and they both knew it. Kuryakin no longer trusted the City, or any city for that matter. “As for just visiting you, I’m also here on business.” 

“Then, you’re not staying long.” Solo guessed.

“No, I’m afraid not. Just today and tomorrow, and then we’ll be flying back.”

Solo didn’t know if he’d get an answer, but he asked anyway. “To where?”

“Do you remember Tangaloa?”

Solo said he did. It was a remote chain of inhabited islands in the middle of the Pacific. He’d never been there, but he’d seen pictures of it in a dossier. “U.N.C.L.E. used to have a listening post there.”

“They still do, and I have charge of the station.”

“Ah,” Solo replied as it all came together. Now, he understood. “I see. A convenient hideaway.”

“No, Napoleon, not merely a place to hide. A home. Our home. We’re very happy there.” Kuryakin paused as he broke open a dinner roll with his fingers. “You know,” he added quietly, “you might be happy there as well.”

Solo arched an eyebrow, his fork suspended in mid-air. “I beg your pardon?”

 “On the island,” Kuryakin added, forcing himself to sound matter-of-fact. He was prepared for resistance. “You could come back with us.”

Solo laughed, dry and incredulous. This was even more unexpected than the visit. “And what would I do there?” The idea amused him.

“It’s a tropical paradise. Anything you want. Sail, fish. You could live like Gauguin.”

“I don’t paint.”

“The islanders are very friendly. I’m sure you’ll find _something_ to do.”

“But my life is here,” Solo countered, though he was still smiling. He couldn’t believe Illya was doing anything but spinning an exotic daydream, it was such an off-the-wall notion. “I have my business —”

“Sell it.”

“What about my daughter? She still needs me —”

“She’s grown up, Napoleon, or haven’t you noticed? She’s getting married. David showed me the ring. She’ll have a husband who’s an agent —”

“Just three years in Section Three —”

“She’ll have a _gun_.”

“And no experience. She’ll need my advice.”

“Nonsense. In a year or two, she’ll be protecting _you_.”

“Jesus, Illya,” Solo exclaimed, “what’s got into you?” First, Allyson and David acting all nervous and mysterious, and now this.  It was certainly shaping up to be a strange evening.

“I’m inviting you to come back to the island with us.”

“But why?” Solo still couldn’t believe Illya was serious, though the mood on the other side of the table was certainly grim. “I told you: I’m doing all right. I have friends, family. I have plenty of interests to keep me busy. I know we’re eligible for senior citizen discounts, but really, it’s too soon to retire. I mean, —”

“ _They’re going to kill you._ ” The words were delivered coldly, as firm and blunt as possible, and afterward, Kuryakin leaned back in his seat and exhaled a long, deep breath as if to say: _There. I’ve said it._

Speechless, Solo just stared across the table. Then, after a moment, he asked, gesturing with his knife, “Is that what all this — the visit, the dinner — is about?” It was dawning on him now: he’d been set up. Annoyed, Solo added, “Does my daughter know about this? That you were going to tell me to —”

“No,” Kuryakin broke in hastily, “she doesn’t. She just wanted to surprise you with my company. I haven’t shared with her any of my concerns.”

 _Concerns._ No, more like fears. Solo could see it on his friend’s face and he was touched. It wasn’t like Illya to admit he was worried. His anger fading, Solo resumed eating his dinner, but Kuryakin would not be deterred.

“Napoleon, be reasonable. They’ve tried before and nearly succeeded.”

“Nash is dead,” Solo pointed out between bites.

“But there will be others. We’ve left behind loose ends, you and I, a good deal of unfinished business. They’re going to try again. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, but it will happen again. And again. You know that it will. It’s inevitable.”

Solo shrugged as he ate. “So? We’ve lived that way all our lives.”

“And how long do you think your luck will hold out? Look at you: you live and work — and eat — out in the open. Any madman could find you easily. You don’t even have a gun.”

“I have a gun. I just don’t _carry_ it. I choose not to carry it.”

“That’s perverse,” said Kuryakin in disgust.

“No, it’s called normality. Weapons put people off, make them nervous. For twenty years, my life was determined by a gun. I won’t live like that any more.”

“Then, you might not live at all,” Kuryakin observed quietly.

“Then, so be it.”

 “I’d rather not read about your death in the overnights.”

 “Oh yeah? And what about you?” Solo said, obviously still unconvinced. “You don’t think anyone is gunning for you?”

  “Of course they are,” Kuryakin said. “But where I am now, I’ll see it coming.”

Solo could offer no snappy comeback to that one, so the meal was finished and the dishes cleared away in silence, and it wasn’t until the coffee arrived spiced with a little shot of brandy that he took up the conversation again.   

 “You know, tovarishch, paranoia doesn’t become you.”

 “I’m not paranoid, just more practical.”

“You were always that.”

“And you were not.”

“Then things are as they should be.” Solo lifted his coffee cup in an impromptu toast. “Na zaftra,” he said: _to tomorrow._

“Assuming there is one,” Kuryakin replied, and because the sentiment was sincere and so predictable, so in character for his pessimistic old partner, Solo just laughed and shook his head.

***

Alone in the foyer again, Adrian Peterson was slipping his arms through the sleeves of his well-worn trench coat, trying to formulate his quickest escape route, when the butler appeared again, presumably to escort him to the door.

“Mr. Peterson?” the butler inquired with the same formal politeness as before. “Would you have time to remain a while longer? Mr. Marton would like to see you in his study.”

 “Mr. Marton?” Peterson asked incredulously. He couldn’t believe it. “He wants to see me?”

“In his study.” The butler held out a hand and said, “This way, if you please, sir,” and once more, led the way down the long central corridor. This time, however, they turned right at the center and ended up in the corner of the north wing of the house.

Victor Marton was waiting for them, seated behind a huge antique desk.

“Come in, Mr. Peterson, please: sit down.”

Peterson did as the butler withdrew and quietly closed the door behind him.

“Feeling a bit ...chagrined, are we?” Marton inquired, smiling through uneven teeth yellowed by a half century of nicotine.

The young man nodded sullenly, ducking his head. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Marton. You’ve been kind to me and I embarrassed you.”

“Embarrassed? Oh, rubbish.”

Marton wondered if the regret he was hearing was genuine or just a calculated ploy to win sympathy. Probably both. He recalled how Peterson had marshaled his humiliation and suppressed his anger even as the fire in his eyes did not fade.

“I shall be frank with you: you’re intelligent and ambitious, but you’re also young and humorless and terribly callow, and you’ve had the misfortune to grow up in the American middle class suburbs where they breed vulgar, narrow-minded, underachieving little monsters by the millions. But I won’t hold it against you. It wasn’t your fault, and we all have to begin somewhere.

“So, despite tonight’s minor setback, I still believe you have promise.” Marton opened a leather bound portfolio, signed his name with a shaky hand, and tore out the bottom third of a page.

“Here is your check.”

Pleasantly surprised, Peterson reached for the slip of paper. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

“Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I can manage my money.

“Yes, I suppose you can. But if you wish to work for me, I will require you to dress well and reside in a decent neighborhood.” Marton gestured. “Tell me if you think that amount is sufficient for your needs.”

Casually, Peterson glanced down at the scribbled numbers and his surprise turned to shock. It was four times what he’d asked for.

“I can’t accept this,” Peterson observed gravely, ready to return the check.

“Why not?”

“It’s too much.”   

Marton stared at him, rheumy eyes bright with suspicion. “I sincerely hope that’s not some false sense of integrity I’m hearing.”

“Not at all. I just don’t want to owe you that much. I don’t want to be owned.”

The ancient Thrushman leaned back in his thickly padded chair and chuckled softly. It was a disturbing sound, malicious and knowing, and it sent a faint shiver up Peterson’s spine.

“My dear boy, we already own you. You’ve belonged to us since the day you were born. It was just a matter of time before you claimed your heritage.”

Peterson looked down at the amount on the check again as if he’d expected it to dwindle away before his eyes. When it didn’t, he folded it carefully and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

Now it was time to go, and Marton was rising, propped unsteadily on his bone handle cane. Peterson reached out to shake his benefactor’s gnarled hand. “Thank you, again, sir. I promise I won’t let you down. I’ll get him for sure.”

“Get him?” Marton narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you think this is? Blood money?”

“Well, with my proposal —”

But the old man was shaking his withered head. “Not at all. Your little project does not interest me in the least, and if you’re as bright as I think you are, you’ll abandon this pointless obsession. Some of my guests tonight may still thirst for revenge, but I don’t. Your father and his ex-partner belong to the past. They are history. You, my young friend, are the future. I consider that check an investment.”

“Yes, sir,” Peterson said uncertainly.

“Now go, go.” Marton fanned his long fingers in the direction of the door. “Oh, and pay a visit to my personal tailor. My man, Maurice will give you the address. Next time you come here, I will expect to see you dressed in a proper suit.”

“Yes, sir,” Peterson agreed and left.

“Well, well, well,” Angelique crooned, slipping through another door on the opposite side of the room. “An investment in the future, is he?”

Marton snuffled a laugh as he dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk. “Take good care of our dark prince, my dear. Nurture him at your bosom. Feed him a diet of viper’s milk.”

“So he’ll grow up big and strong like Daddy?”

“Perish the thought.”

“How about if I just offer him a ride? It’s still snowing and he hiked his way here from the RTA station, so he could probably use one.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Marton agreed, and Angelique took the hint and was gone.

 Alone once again, Marton put his checkbook away and locked the desk drawer. He knew his days were numbered. The doctors were saying a year, maybe two at the most. But Marton didn’t need any formal diagnosis; he could see the evidence himself every time he looked in a mirror. Cadaverous cheeks, graying, liver spotted skin, wispy tuffs of white hair at his temples: his face looked like a photo that had already gone cracked and yellow. His skeletal, ravaged body looked even worse. Sometimes, the pain was severe enough that fragments of time would get lost like loose change slipping through a hole in the pocket of his mind.

No, he probably wouldn’t see Peterson’s graduation from law school and that was too bad. Nevertheless, the seeds were planted; his legacy, secured. Thrush would draw its new blood from the veins of one of U.N.C.L.E.’s greatest agents.

Marton smiled sadly at the thought. If only he could have lived long enough to witness the irony. _Such a shame._

***

 “I understand what you’re saying,” Solo allowed, “and I appreciate your concern, I really do.”

 He and Kuryakin were outside now, walking leisurely along the sidewalk and heading in the direction of Fifth Avenue and Rockefeller Center. All around them, holiday lights blinked and sparkled, even in the windows of shops long since closed for the night. The star-choked sky above the tops of the buildings was perfectly clear and the air was so cold and crisp, it almost hurt to breathe.

 “You have your family, your work for U.N.C.L.E. On that island, I’d have no purpose and you know I can’t live without that.”

 “I thought it was sex you couldn’t live without,” Kuryakin remarked, his tone, dry, his attitude less serious and more resigned than earlier.

“That too,” Solo conceded with a grin. “But sex isn’t everything.”

  Kuryakin rolled his eyes in mock dismay. “Oh, no, don’t let me hear you say that. Now I _know_ we’re getting old.”

 His joke was meant to make Solo laugh and it did. “C’mon, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine.”

  “You don’t protect yourself well enough. At least carry a gun.”

 “Why? My daughter will have a gun — you said so yourself. And my future son-in-law has a gun, and probably, instead of rattles, every one of my grandchildren will be equipped with tiny U.N.C.L.E. Specials. Christ, I’ll be surrounded by an entire family who’s armed.”

 “And they’ll spend all their time protecting you.”

 “No, they won’t,” Solo assured him, though he found the image of several babies, small guns clutched in chubby hands, enormously amusing. “All that tropical sun may have lightened your hair, tovarishch, but not your gloomy Russian moods.” He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right.”

“No, it won’t, but I can see you’re too pigheaded to do anything about it.” They paused as they reached the corner of Fifth. Although most of the side streets had been deserted, here, suddenly, there were swarms of people and the avenue vibrated with the rumble of traffic — cabs and limos, last minute shoppers, young couples with ice skates draped over their shoulders, and groups of tourists and families just milling about, soaking up the holiday cheer.

 Kuryakin jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and toed the ground thoughtfully. “I meant what I said before. Please promise me you’ll be more careful. I don’t want to hear that some punk somewhere got off a lucky shot and took you out. After all these years, I can’t imagine living in a world without you in it.”

 And because he’d had the exact same thought earlier that evening, the admission made Solo want to hug his friend and he did, right there, on the corner of Forty-ninth and Fifth, with the tinny blare of a Salvation Army brass quartet struggling above all the city noise to play _Oh,Come All Ye Faithful_ in the background. And Kuryakin allowed it and even returned the embrace, knowing it might very well be the last time they’d ever see each other, while sincerely hoping it was not.

 “I should be getting back,” the Russian said, apologetically, when they broke apart.

 “Not even going to see the tree? It’s pretty big this year.”

 “And so are the crowds.”

 “Sure,” Solo conceded. “And you have your family to think about.” He knew what that was like. If he’d been as cautious, maybe his own wife would be alive today.

 Kuryakin forced a smile, the moment becoming awkward between them. “Please, think seriously  about what I said.”

 Solo nodded, although they both knew he wouldn’t.

“And if you ever change your mind, you know you can always contact me through U.N.C.L.E.”

 Solo nodded again. “Stay in touch.”

 “I’ll try,” Kuryakin promised. “Goodbye, my friend. Be well.” He reached for Solo’s hand and shook it with both of his, and then he was gone, retreating from the burnished light of the busy avenue, melting away into the sheltering safety of the surrounding night.

 Solo stood alone on the corner for a two entire minutes and the stoplight changed three times before he decided to actually cross the avenue. Seeing Illya again conjured up an overwhelming rush of memories as it always did, and as he walked along, he allowed them to fill his mind and his heart. He missed Illya and would continue to miss him, but he’d told the truth over dinner: this was where his life was now, and he was happy with it. He’d come to New York a grown man, but now he felt like a native. He loved the city, loved being part of it, and he couldn’t abandon it any more than he could abandon his own daughter. He belonged here now, and even though he knew she’d be traveling the world soon, he needed to be in a place where she and David could reach him quickly, easily.

Lazing about on a tropical isle sounded tempting, but he had his own family, his own responsibilities, still to consider. Despite all the adventure, and the risk-taking, and yes, all the women, if his life had been about anything, it had been about responsibility: to an irascible old man with a pipe, to an idealistic organization almost too good to be true, to a world forever on the brink of annihilation, but most of all, to a cause. He and Illya had saved humanity hundreds of times, in a variety of ways, both large and small, and now his daughter and her soon-to-be husband would do the same.

Not a bad legacy for one’s lifetime, Solo thought as he meandered past the oversized seraphim in the courtyard of Rockefeller Center, bathed in the ivory glow of their pure, white light. He remembered the communicator still tucked into his breast pocket. Maybe he wouldn’t call the kids after all — David was probably proposing at that very moment — and he would allow them to enjoy their night together in peace.

Maybe, Solo thought, he’d wander around the skating rink instead for a while, go to midnight mass at St. Patrick’s, take a cab home later, when he was done.

It was a beautiful night and despite the small empty space in his soul, he resolved to make the most of it. For once, just this once, he was going to enjoy Christmas. After all he’d been through, he’d earned it.

***

The sleek silver Porsche pulled up beside the curb, spraying loose stones and slush as it skidded to a halt.

“Going my way?” Angelique called out through the open window on the passenger’s side. Adrian Peterson ducked his head and peered in. He’d been expecting her.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Oooh, a man who understands metaphor. You deserve a ride for that alone.”

She told him to hop in, and he did, brushing off the snow from his shoulders before he slammed the door shut with a solid thump.

“You are just soooo delicious,” she purred as she thumbed his chin and caressed his jaw line.

Peterson could see it in her eyes. “So, tell me: did my father have you, too?”

Angelique laughed as she threw the car into gear. “Oh darling, no. I had _him_.” Easing the car into the snowy street, she added slyly, “And just think: you might have been mine.”

Peterson snickered. “You would have liked that, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe. But then you and I would have missed some wonderful nights together.”

“Not necessarily.”

As the meaning of his joke sank in, Angelique’s eyes widened. “Oh, you are a wicked one, aren’t you?”

Settling deep into the warm pocket of leather upholstery, Peterson smiled a familiar smile she remembered all too well.

“You have _no_ idea,” he said.

 

 


End file.
